


A Casualty of the Job

by WhumpTown



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Emily is going to give it to him, F/M, Hospitalization, Hotch Whump, Hotch needs a hug, Hurt Aaron Hotchner, Medical Kink, Sick Hotch, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: Garcia looks disappointed, upset that no one’s biting. “Come on, guys. Truth or dare?”Rather than address her question, Hotch clears his throat in a manner that is to get attention and not remove something from his airway. “This isn’t a sleepover,” his gaze drifts to Garcia, that little parental glare in place. A clear indication he means what he’s saying and he has to look stern but he’s in no way mad. He sighs, rubbing on the opposite temple as the band-aide.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner & The BAU Team, Aaron Hotchner/Emily Prentiss, Emily Prentiss & The BAU Team
Comments: 10
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

Being on the team has very few perks. The occasional grateful family that sends them home with snacks. A letter from a victim personally thanking them or even just a simple healthy-looking picture. At the end of the day, they sacrifice more than they ever get back. Nightmares haunt their dreams. Their free time is still dedicated to the job. They call it casualties of the job but it is so much more than that.

It’s like an inside joke. Anything they don’t want to talk about, any side effects of their job they just write off as ‘casualty of the job’. It’s painfully normal to them. Which is in no way shape or form, a good thing.

“Truth or dare?”

Emily contains her snicker for the sheer purpose of the pained groan coming from Hotch. It’s discernible but overall she imagines he’s not delighted with the situation. Looking over at him, she sees the highlighter pink bandage across his forehead. “Any particular reason for the...?” She points to the bandaid.

Garcia looks disappointed, upset that no one’s biting. “Come on, guys. Truth or dare?”

Rather than address her question, Hotch clears his throat in a manner that is to get attention and not remove something from his airway. “This isn’t a sleepover,” his gaze drifts to Garcia, that little parental glare in place. A clear indication he means what he’s saying and he has to look stern but he’s in no way mad. He sighs, rubbing on the opposite temple as the band-aide. 

“Headache?” Emily asks, settling herself beside him.

They seem to get off of one case, only to be put onto another. Yesterday was their day off. Today he came into the office at 8:30. A little behind schedule but still ahead of all the others in terms of getting in. JJ gave him a case file and sent him on his way. It’s 12:56 now and they’re sitting in a quarantine room all of them having been exposed to a deadly disease that has neither a name, a cure, or even an explanation of how they were exposed. 

Hotch sighs, deeply. He keeps rubbing, digging his thumb into his skin. “At this point,” he glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “We’re quarantined to this room.” He grumbles, “ we could die and they want to play truth or dare.” 

Emily laughs softly, watching Morgan pick ‘dare’. She has no idea what he’ll do, they’re in a rather small room and surrounded by concrete walls. She has a sneaking suspension, he’ll end up licking the wall. “Let them have their fun,” she chides. “How frequently do we all just get to hang-out?” She can think of two times, once at Rossi’s and once before Hotch’s divorce. “I mean, I was starting to think I was going to have to die again to get you guys together.”

He shakes his head and silences a grimace but she catches how his eyes squint. He keeps her on her toes. There’s nothing as challenging as figuring out what's going on in his head. Admittedly, he is not the person she should have tested that joke on but at the very least he should have shot her a disapproving frown. “Are you sure you’re okay, Hotch?” She places a hand on his back and he doesn’t shrug it away. That’s by no means a good thing. Worry now creeping in, she’s glad the others are distracted with entertaining themselves, Garcia and Morgan their main entertainers. 

Hotch presses his palm to his forehead, the other coming over to protect his left ear. “I’m fine,” he grunts. Seeing Emily’s concern he offers her a small explanation. If he doesn’t shut her down, she’ll get the others involved. Locked in this cement block with nowhere to run he’s adamant to let her continue on. “I was trying to fix the sink in the kitchen the night before last.” He looks at her again, knowing she’ll derive some sick joy out of what he’s about to tell her. “Jack, he was trying to help, but he-he dropped a wrench on my…”

Emily’s eyes go wide, her hand coming over her mouth to poorly hide her smile. “No,” she mumbles around it. 

He nods sullenly. “Yeah,” he sighs. “So, I sat up and I hit my head on the pipe.” He looks down at his lap, “scared Jack pretty good.” For some reason, he dares a small smile her way. Even telling her, “we both cried.” It does nothing to ease the pain in his skull of throb in his ear. Something about the way she looks at him helps though. Emily’s never overly sympathetic. Her touch never comes out of nowhere. She’s predictable in a way he finds familiar. When she knocks shoulders with him or sits down beside him he doesn’t even think anything of it. 

She offers a short chuckle at his expense, “does that explain the bandaid?”

He touches it, nearly having forgotten its existence. “Jack,” he explains, recalling his son’s fat tears. Lap still very sore, he held Jack to his chest until they both were done crying. Then, riddled with his father’s guilt complex Jack cried again when he saw the blood running down the side of his face. Which is why he was sent to work today with a little pink bandaid. 

Jack sent him with one the day before, this one neon green. He took it off in the car but by the time he got home he forgot about it. Jack was very upset with him for not keeping it on. _“Daddy, your scratch won’t get better if you don’t take care of it.”_ Then hit him with the _“Are you mad at me?”_. So, today he caved rather than come home and be confronted with another round of Jack’s tears. 

Emily nods in understanding and he has no doubt that she really does. Jack is almost too much like him for his own good and, yet, nothing like him. Emily derives great joy from this fact. While Hotch only gets emotional when he’s high out of his mind on morphine (which was strictly on one occasion but she refuses to let it go), Jack will tell her anything she wants to know. It can be about Hotch or Jack’s day, everything is acceptable for him. 

“He’s got you wrapped around his finger,” Emily taunts. She knocks her shoulder against his, chuckling at his expense. She’s seen Jack’s little games in person. The way he hits Hotch with those sad little eyes, asking for a cookie or five more minutes before bedtime. Hotch is a sucker, at the end of the day. “You’re a sucker.”

He doesn’t offer a rebuttal or even an acknowledgment, his fingers just keep running back over his forehead, rubbing creases away. 

“Agents?” The window of the door slides open, Strauss standing just outside. She looks them all over, able to see the entire room. “I assume you understand the circumstances at hand?” Arms crossed, frowning, there’s a distinct impression she doesn’t care all that much. In all fairness, if they die, it takes out Hotch. That’s a lot of her problems right out the window. 

College-educated, FBI filtered and educated, they understand the simplicity of what is at hand. Reid had Anthrax, so considering their luck a very dangerous airborne, nameless toxin doesn’t seem that bad. Certainly, not as bad as Anthrax. None of them even have symptoms. 

Rising to his feet, Hotch goes to the window. “We’ve been briefed,” he confirms. “We gave a blood sample and had our temperatures taken less than an hour ago.” He crosses his arms, he’s got a headache and he wants to get out of here. “The results of those tests should have come back by now.” He wants to go home to his tired elementary schooler. Be whined at until he caves because they’re both in a bad mood and screw it, why not just eat macaroni and hot dogs for the third night? 

The worst part might actually be that macaroni and hot dogs sound really good right now.

“Actually, they have Agent Hotchner.” She sighs and although he can’t really hear it, he really doesn’t like the sound of that. To her credit, she looks displeased. “David, Ms. Garcia, Agent Jareau, Derek, and Dr. Reid,” her eyes fall on them and Hotch’s stomach forms knots. He already knows what she’s going to say. “You’re to be escorted to another room, isolated for another four hours, and if all remains steady released.”

It’s Garcia, in the noise of the other’s chattering excitedly, that realizes two names have been left off their list. “W-Wait,” she turns a pair of teary eyes to Hotch and Emily. Their forced smiles make her stomach hurt and she can already hear their reassuring words long before they even attempt to soothe her. “What about- What about Em’ and Boss Man?” She looks back to Strauss, “we can’t leave them!”

The worst part, the casualty to the job, is that it’s not hard to fall right into place. Vocalizing what needs to be done.

“Baby Girl,” Morgan’s already talking Garcia down, providing a distraction so she can be whisked away with the rest of them.

Rossi nods his head to Hotch, solemn. “I’ll pick Jack up from Jessica’s when this is all over,” he promises. “I’ll tell him you’re at a conference.” His smile to Emily makes the room feel light, “you mind if I take the kid with me to feed Sergio?”

Hotch offers a tight smile and Emily bumps her shoulder against his. Jack loves Sergio. “They’ll both love it,” and she’s not sure if she’s attempting to offer Hotch some comfort or reassuring Rossi.

Just like that, they’ve run out of proper things to say. Rossi wants to pull them into a hug, apologize for the universe always seeming to make it these two when a cross must be bared. No words come out of their mouths, silent glances confirming and promising. Reid keeps looking between the floor and the pair of them. Whether it’s personal guilt for not being sick or craving their proximity while he’s ushered away. Emily winks and Hotch nods, dutifully Reid does as he’s told. Rossi’s left-hand trembles at his side, it’s an ‘ _I love you, guys_ ’ and ‘ _take care of each other_ ’ wrapped into a side-eye. 

“Tell Jack-” the words won’t fall off his lips.

“He knows, son.” There’s something about the way that Rossi regards Hotch in this very second that makes Hotch’s stomach knot in unease. “He knows.”

Hotch can only hope his son truly does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm spending way too much time watching Criminal Minds

Emily wraps her arms around her chest, ignoring the people filing in to take place of the rest of the team filing out. Throwing glances over their shoulders, Morgan never breaking eye contact with Hotch, they all know they have the control right now. All it takes is a single nod from Hotch, even the right _look_ , and Morgan will punch his way out of this. But there’s no nod. Not even a look. 

Each passing second makes her anxiety grow stronger. The arms wrapped around her may provide a faux comfort, it releases all the right hormones but does nothing to soothe her racing heart. Especially when she sees the changes of clothes- hospital gowns. “No offense,” Emily mumbles, realizing just the kind of position they’re about to be put in together. “If they make us undress, turn your head?” 

Hotch is taking in the turn of events. So much for seeing Jack tonight. He looks over at Emily, taking a moment to process what she’s said. “Can you afford the same generosity?” He’s only phrasing it that way because he knows that Emily will sneak a glance. Playfully, she might even sneak in a jab at his expense. Rather that comment is aimed at his lack of abs or about his butt he’s not sure.

She feigns knowing what’s he’s talking about. She’s never told him about the whole dare/agreement between her, JJ, and Garcia. Especially, when considering that it involved the three of them blatantly sexualizing not only Reid, Morgan, but also, Hotch. “The same-” she puts a hand to her chest and while her dramatics are overkill he finds himself glad that she’s keeping a level head. Remaining herself. “Hotch, I would _never_.”

He refrains from rolling his eyes, which will encourage her even more. Instead, he just nods and glances at her out of the corner of his eye. At the back of his mind, he’s really considering what she’ll see. He looks down at his own chest. He considers what she means, imagines one of the guys in the movies Haley used to watch or the ones that he knows the girls watch on girl’s nights at Emily’s house. She is implying abs and if he has them. His mind goes to the nine scars starting at his shoulders and running to the top of his hips, not muscles.

In front of them, clothes in hand, the doctors are gathering. Emily takes one look at the people eyeing her and steps behind Hotch. “Will you go first?” Rather than allow him the chance to answer, she just pushes him. 

He sighs but only budges half a step. She forgets he’s bigger than she is. 

“Agents,” Strauss is behind a mask. The only reason either can tell she is frowning is because they recognize the tone n her voice. “No need to fear.” Turning back to the both of them, she sighs. Hotch doesn’t feel bad for her. “You’re going to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. You’re going to give another sample of blood to double-check your results. The doctors are going to monitor your heart rates and, God willing, you’ll be released this time tomorrow.”

God willing? 

Emily gets the picture and sends a thank you to her merciful God that she’s wearing a tanktop. Knowing Hotch, his rigid control and attire, he doesn’t wear wife-beaters. He wears plain white t-shirts under his white dress-shirts. Classy. 

Pulling her top over her head she deposits it on the cot being pushed closest to her. Her shoulders bare, she realizes how chilly the room is. 

Fist gripped at his side, Hotch’s eyes glance over all the people in the room. Adamant to take off his shirt. Suddenly, Emily feels guilty about her joke and guilty that she doesn’t have to sit shirtless with him.

“Good luck, agents.”

They’re told to strip.

Hotch doesn't get to keep his shirt. There are nine scars, Emily keeps reminding herself of this. Each time he shifts on the bed her attention snaps to him, she sees one of the scars. Pain, she feels pain each time she lays eyes on one of those scars. There are still irrationally upsetting moments in the early mornings, confusing still attempting to cloud her mind when she thinks Foyet is still out there. If she feels that way, how does he feel?

“Little cold.” It’s all the warning either of them get before they’re sitting attached to cold EKGs half-naked five feet apart. “Agents,” they’re called collectively. “If you need anything just press this panic button,” they both handed what looks to be more like morphine pumps and not emergency ways to communicate one or both of them are dying.

The door behind the last doctor shuts gently and hotch can’t help but feel a little desperate when they hear the sound of a lock sliding into place.

Emily is already bored. “So,” she looks over at Hotch, “truth or dare?” She’s wearing a broad smile, clear her question is taunting and not for him to answer. Not that he would if she were being serious. She flops back on her cot, glancing over at Hotch. 

He’s laid back on his cot, a light blanket pulled to his neck, and arms folded back behind his head. He’s looking at the ceiling. 

“Hotch,” she lets some of the worry air into her voice. It’s just him and if she wants him to be honest, she’s going to have to bare her soul. “Do you think…” on her side she can see his steady breathing and he turns his head to look back at her. “Do you think we’re going to be okay?”

Emily’s anxiety flares it’s ugly head high when he looks back to the ceiling. Denying her eye contact is a sure-fire way to tell something is amok in his brain. It’s a sign of guilt or worry and even anger. She swallows the worry in her throat and gets off her cot, daring him in her silence as she pushes her cot flush next to his. 

She lays back down and slips her hand right beside his. He turns his head as their knuckles brush, eyes intently stuck on their hands. She entangles their fingers and waits in silent terror for him to react. He blinks- one, two, three times before moving his eyes and head back to the ceiling.

Ever so slightly, the fingers wrapped around hers squeeze and he answers her question from what already feels like a lifetime ago. “I don’t think we have a choice.” They can’t _both_ die, is what he’s saying. Someone has to take care of the team. Make sure Rossi actually writes his books. Take Morgan home after bar hopping. Keep Garcia from stress baking entire bakeries to bring in Monday at work. Be JJ’s shoulder to cry on when the job gets to be too much. Take Reid home when he takes the subway and it’s too late to feel safe sending his scrawny butt home.

Then there’s Jack. 

He’ll go to Jessica if Hotch dies but he’ll be deprived of his other family. The team. A misfit group of people who are all he has, even if he does deserve better. 

“Right,” Emily agrees, looking at the ceiling too. “We don’t have a choice.”  
______________

She’s thrown from a fitful sleep by the sound of a pained groan. She sits up in her cot, hand over her forehead as she fails to realize where she is. Another grunt, cough and wheeze, draws her attention to the man on the cot beside her. “Hotch?”

His head shakes, eyes closed in his sleep. Shouting, he sits upright, nearly throwing himself off the cot in his confusion. “Hotch!” One leg on the ground, the other still on the bed he’s hunched over himself. In the low light, she can see the sweat on his bare back, the muscles rippling as he struggles to breathe. EKG leads are still attached to his chest, the monitors sound his distress. “Hotch!”

He shakes his head, body continuing to tilt forward against his will. Before he can stop her, Emily’s on her feet. She pushes his chest back, allowing him to lean against her as he coughs himself hoarse. His hands pushing her away, trying to protect her from whatever it is affecting him.

He doesn’t respond, lips already paling as he fails to draw in enough air. She hits the button earlier, cursing when it appears to do nothing. “It’s okay, Hotch,” except it isn’t. He’s leaning more and more on her.

“Agent Prentiss!” A doctor waves at the window, his shouting getting her attention. “Give him the mask!” He points to the discarded mask, hanging rather uselessly over the EKG. “Agent Prentiss, he needs the mask!” 

She gets the picture. Rather than untangling herself from him, she leans over and around him. Struggling around his boney shoulders and then around the wires. Getting the mask on is a struggle and he is by no means helping. 

“Put it on, Hotch!” She pushes his hands down. She’s a mix of feeling fortunate that he can’t fight her and terrified that she’s able to just bat his hands down. “Just breathe,” she urges.

The door rattles, more hitting. “Turn the oxygen on!”

Emily lets out a string of curses and makes Hotch’s already breathless coughs turn dangerous wheeze-like. “Just give me a second, Hotch.” She wiggles around him, which is ridiculous but her type of grace under pressure is not literal grace. “Here! Here!” She presses it back to his face, at least this time it’s pushing oxygen his way.

Bonelessly, his sweaty forehead is pressed against her bare shoulder. 

She pushes his hair back, rubbing a hand down his back. “Are you okay?” 

His eyes find hers out of the corner of his eyes. Head falling, he pushes her away. “Stay back, Prentiss.” His push isn’t enough to actually move her, just his bare forearm pressed to her ribs. She goes nowhere, he loses a little more strength. “Please.”

He lets out another weak cough, left-hand tangling in the fabric of her shirt near her hip. “Em-” he trembles unable to gather a strong enough breath to complete his sentence. “Em-Emily-” he pulls in a wheezed cough, sinking further against her. “Jack,” his hands pull the mask away from his face, his head lifting so his eyes meet hers. His shoulders lift with each breath, another breath another wheeze. “-Jack needs-”

Emily runs her hands through his hair, gently shushing him. “Ho-Aaron, calm down. Everything’s okay.” He struggles to get away, to put distance between them to clarify. She pulls the mask from his hands, pushing it back to his face. “Aaron,” she places a hand on his cheek. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

His pale lips open to form words but nothing comes out. 

“Hotch?” She touches his cheek, “Aaron?”

His eyes roll back into his head, body going limp. 

“NO! No! Aaron!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad Hotch makes me very sad (also, I've been watching Dharma and Greg and in that he's constantly getting hugged and getting his hair tousled and it makes me sad watching him be sad as Hotch all the time)


	3. Chapter 3

Their penance has been served. Time is dwindling down and soon now they’ll be taken from this room. They’ll go home.

“Dave?” There’s this lapse in her judgment that makes her throat burn and she calls him by his first name. It’s a mistake because she never calls him Dave and she can see the worry spike up his tired frame the moment she says it. She runs her hands down her face, trying to piece together what she needs to ask. 

Rossi frowns and mercifully the other three are sitting on the other half of the room. Morgan’s arms wrapped around Garcia and Reid, offering them comfort while they overthink what could be going wrong in the other room. Rossi considers it to be a picture-worthy moment but he hasn’t got a phone. 

“Should we have fought?” JJ has started pacing, her hands worriedly running through her hair. A tick, one she shares with Garcia and Emily. “Should we have told them to go to hell?” When she turns back to look at him her eyes are full of tears and her voice shakes as she asks, “I mean, we shouldn’t have left them, right?”

Rossi glances over his shoulder, knowing damn well the other three have heard JJ’s lapse in cool temperament are not skyrocketing their own anxieties. He clears the space between himself and JJ in a quick stride, taking her bony shoulders in his hands. “Look at me,” his tone is stern and even. 

Allowing her to panic will set off the dominos. He can be cool and casual in a moment.

“Aaron and Emily take care of each other,” he reminds her. “Through Foyet, through Doyle...” He knows his audience isn’t just JJ. The whole room is on him and they need him to be more than right. They need him to comfort them. “They trust one another and we need to trust them.” 

He lets some of his own burning emotions take over and he cups her cheek in his palm. He’s terrified and he’d be lying if said different. “I…” he can’t find the words. Not the right ones. “You’re all like my children,” he admits softly, hesitant because he’s afraid they’ll reject this idea. This idea that he holds so close to his heart that rejecting would kill him. “It always hurts to see you all hurting but those two are-”

The oldest siblings. 

The second parents.

The trouble magnets.

The problem solvers.

Two peas in a pod.

The ones who keep him up in the dead of night.

The reason for far too many of his grey hair.

“The responsible ones?” JJ asks with a chuckle as she wipes her eyes.

Yeah, Rossi smiles and shakes his head. Somehow. “Yeah, as much as any of you can be called responsible.”

There’s a soft gasp from the corner and curled up with his scrawny knees to his chest, Reid looks every bit of five as he pouts. “ _I_ turn my paperwork in on time!” 

Rossi inhales through his nose, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. He can’t fake the real, raw smile that Reid smacks on his face. He shakes his head, “they’re definitely the responsible ones.”

It feels good to laugh, forced, or not. They share smiles, letting their minds wander. 

A sharp knock draws their attention to the door. A man opens the door, “come with me.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Without Hotch in the room, Dave finds all the eyes on him. He looks to the man, whose frustration is burning on every inch of his face. Just like them, he’d rather be anywhere but here. Dave nods his head, his nonverbal go-ahead.

Morgan steps out first, Garcia’s hand slipping out of his so she can slink back with JJ. He squares his shoulders and keeps walking, prepared to be the first to take on anything that is to come next.

Morgan doesn’t trust any of the officers around them for a minute. The agents, all suited and glasses down they’re the secret service and not novice morons, glare at them as they pass. It makes him unsettled and he wishes Hotch were here. Then he could gauge in the older man if there was a threat. Hotch has a thing for sniffing out trouble before it comes along, the skill a child acquires to refrain from getting hit by an abusive parent. Don’t think for a moment, Morgan hasn’t noticed Hotch can see drunk written on men before he steps into a room with them.

“Oh my God,” Morgan looks over his shoulder, back at JJ who is frozen. He turns around, following her gaze to the room they’d left a few hours previous.   
It’s framed by large windows akin to their conference room which gives them a vantage point right into the room. 

Emily is standing by the windows, her shoulders shaking and hands over her mouth. The kind of movement that in another situation could look like unabiding laughter but it’s not. She’s sobbing. 

To the side, further back three hospital staff are bent over a bed. On it, in nothing but his dress pants, Hotch is laying on his back. There’s a young woman kneeling on at his side, doing chest compressions. A man is squeezing a blue bag over Hotch’s face. 

There’s perfect silence outside those windows.

“Hotch!” Morgan tries to move from their given path, finding himself blocked by doctors and staff before he can get a foot closer. “Let go of me you son of a bitch!” He throws punches, tries to push his way past but feral and wild he gets nowhere. He’s pushed back and he stumbles. When he right himself, there are tears in his eyes. “Come on,” he pleads. “That’s my- my friend, he’s dying in there.”

“Agent Morgan!” Strauss calls, waving her hands redirecting their attention to the older woman forcing her way to them. “He’s being taken care of.” Her reassurances do nothing for their worry. “There’s nothing any of us can do,” her hands are raised, her voice even and soft.

Morgan looks back at the others. 

Reid can’t tear his eyes away.

Garcia is sobbing, arms wrapped around herself as she keeps her back turned to the sight before her.

JJ has her face buried in Dave’s chest, the older man’s jaw clenched.

“Can-Can’t we do something?” Morgan hates that he can hear his voice waver. That his fear is being so effortlessly broadcasted. 

Strauss shakes her head. “Agent Prentiss’ condition remains stable. She’s refusing to be moved.” She excludes the warning she’d given Emily, that without a cure their Unit Chief will die. That in the end, it’ll be futile to risk other’s lives to preserve his, which will inevitably end. So, his death will be slow. It will be painful. Agonizing. He won’t know where he is. He will know nothing but the concrete walls around him. Alone. 

“What about-” Morgan’s eyes slide back to the window. 

Strauss chooses her words carefully. “His prognosis is… Team B is working tirelessly to get a cure. Agent Hotchner’s life is in their hands.”  
____________________  
Emily does the only thing she can think to do: she rocks him. 

“ _I'm so tired_ ,” she sings under her breath. “ _I’m feeling so upset. Although I'm so tired, I'll have another cigarette._ ” He may have verbally confirmed it only once but Hotch’s favorite album is the Beatles White album. “ _And curse Sir Walter Raleigh. He was such a stupid get._ ” 

She can remember Jack right after everything with Haley and Foyet, running around Hotch’s apartment singing the song. He was in, his pull-up from the night before and hyper. He ran into Hotch, and from Hotch’s reaction, it was something Jack did a lot. Hotch scooped up the toddler, shooting her a look that said his mood was walking a tight wire. 

More than Hotch’s somber mood during that month she remembers Jack climbing into Hotch’s lap. He nestled into Hotch, careful around wounds that still weren’t done healing, and looked up at him. _“Will you sing me the song daddy?”_

Hotch seemed more than adamant to do so, especially with Emily so close. Eventually, he relented and Emily could see the tension leaving his body as he sang to his son. Jack was out like a light and Hotch had sat like a statue for three hours. Perfectly still, just watching his son sleep. His only console in the world. 

“What happened?”

She remembers the sight of his body seizing. The sound of his monitoring flatlining. “Nothing, you’re okay.”

The look in his eyes says he doesn’t believe her for a minute. He can feel a tightness in his chest, weakness spreading along his limbs. He reads her like a book and he hates what he finds. He looks away from her, tears stinging his eyes because he knows. He doesn’t _want_ to die. What about Jack? Reid? The team?

He never taught Jack to ride a bike. To shave. To drive. He pulls himself together because he has to. He fights with the oxygen masks, struggling to get it off his face. “Morgan has to teach him to drive,” he looks back to Emily. “Can-Can you make sure Derek teaches Jack how to drive? Dave can teach him to shave?”

His eyes are pleading with Emily. “Don’t let Reid blame himself,” the simple sentence winds him. “ ‘cause-” he draws in a wheezing breath. “He will, Emily.   
“You have to-” he’s breathless, limp in her arms. “Tell Dave he was the best-best mentor I could have asked for. Tell-”

Emily shushes him, “Aaron, no. You’re-”

“Dying.” he manages through an exhale. “I’m dying, Emily.”

Emily shakes her head, tears falling down her face. She can’t hold back a sob from ripping through her. “No, Aaron,” she cups his cheek. “Please. You’re going to be okay.” His skin is hot enough to burn, sweat forming over his skin. “You’re strong,” she puts her hand over his heart. She can feel it beating beneath her fingers. “Can’t you just be strong one last time?” She feels like a child. A child with no grasp on a dire situation. “For me,” she asks, brushing her thumb along his cheekbone.

“For you?” he whispers. He’s panting with the effort it takes to breathe and she knows she’s asking too much. He coughs, his entire body tensing as the movement jostles agonizing pain. He has no control over the whimper that leaves his mouth. 

“Emily,” he rasps, “I’m scared.”

She pulls in a deep breath, steeling herself. He needs her. She pulls the mask back over his face, gently brushing his hair from his face. Tears threaten to fall and she can’t blink them back fast enough. Her voice trembles, “it’ll be okay, you know that right?”

His Adam's apple bobs, “I… I haven’t believed in God in a long time.” God is the kind of idea that is beaten out in youth. In his case, literally. In his home, God was the liquor in the cabinet. God was the fist that knocked out two of his teeth on his fourteen-birthday for just being born. God was his father’s belt, his father’s booming voice, and his father’s hand wrapped around his neck as his vision blacked out. 

“Even if I did,” his eyes are sinking shut. “Failed… failed Haley ‘n Jack. Killed a man too.”

She understands what he’s implying, what he’s telling her. _Believing in a God is futile for him, he’s going to Hell_. She’s sobbing, cradling him close to her chest. “Hush, now.” She’s running her hands through his hair, sobbing like some idiot. “Get some sleep,” she urges him, knowing he’s fighting for her. 

His eyes drop shut but he forces them back open, swallowing thickly. “Will you stay?”

She presses a kiss to his forehead, “I won’t go anywhere.”


End file.
